


Let’s See if He Still Takes Orders

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, Deception, F/M, Gay Sex, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, RM2, Republic years, Smut, fmm, shaving fetish, while Rachel is technically prisoner this is not dub-con or non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel and Bass have a not-so-friendly competition with their favorite pet. Set during the Republic years; Miles’ POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let’s See if He Still Takes Orders

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously...when did they become OT3? Damn you, Three Amigos!

Perched at the vanity, raking away the stubble of his left cheek with a straight razor, Bass’s sword-blistered hand trembles briefly. If Miles had blinked, he might have missed it; but he didn’t blink.

For the hundredth time, Miles _clinks_ his swords together in agitation and finally disarms, plopping restlessly on the edge of his best friend’s four-poster bed to regard him in the mirror. In Bass’s reflected azure eyes and those slightly unsteady hands, Miles imagines (but can’t confirm) his own uncertainty and that constricting, achy feeling in his throat – _what is that?_ Can you get this bent out of shape over your best friend?

Granted, Miles’ intimacy with Bass over the years has transgressed all boundaries one might consider normal in friendship. They’d plumbed the depths of puberty together, side-by-side, sighing away their miniscule erections with dirty pictures. Through the trauma of losing two families, Miles had held Bass against his chest as tenderly as any lover – more so really, because Miles knew when the women faded, Bass would always remain. There had been the time when Miles was recovering from war trauma (their last and most fucked tour in Afghanistan) and thought he’d never feel desire again. With Miles nearly hysterical beneath a brittle, nonresponsive shell, Bass’ rough, caring fingers had coaxed him back to life. Miles had spent the rest of his life trying _not_ to think how grateful he was when he came in his best friend’s hand with an abrupt sob of, “Sorry!” to Bass’ reassuring, “It’s okay,” as he wiped his hand on the sheet and turned away to sleep.

So, insane as it sounds, the thought that this thirty-year-plus friendship might be disintegrating knots Miles’ stomach, chokes off his air passages, _and_ twists his guts below the belt with the threat of potentially unfulfilled need.

“Miles, don’t look at me like that. You could have sent Rachel away when she surrendered to your camp. _You_ took her in. You’re mad at yourself. Ow. Fuck!” Bass has nicked his jaw, a tiny kiss of scarlet that he wipes away once, twice. “Fuck, Miles. Now I’ll look like teenager at the diplomats’ dinner tonight. Don’t you have someplace to be?”

Miles stills the knee he’s been shaking, unbuttons and discards his uniform blouse, and rises in his shirt-sleeves to stand behind his friend. He extracts the blade from Bass’ clammy clutch and dips it in the pan of water. He needs something to do with his hands anyway.

Bass looks to object but caves when Miles inclines his lathered chin toward the ceiling. Miles’ eyes flit down to the smoothness of Bass’ chest – so oddly hairless, it’s a wonder he has to shave at all. Miles could probably shave twice a day and still grow stubble in between.

Trailing blade through foam, Miles thinks of a million things to say: _When did we get so brutal? I miss when things were simple. Can’t we just let Rachel go?_ All equally pointless. So he flicks water and soap off the razor and scrapes it once more along the sunburnt landscape of Bass’ neck. A rap at the door almost startles him into nicking Bass, but Bass clutches Miles’ wrist just in time.

“That’ll be Rachel and guard. I asked for a word with her about a disturbance on Lake Michigan. Reports of St. Joseph lighthouse turning on, if you can believe that.”

Miles swallows a fresh ball of emotion in his throat at the thought of seeing Rachel. It dawns on him that his pants feel too tight. How long he’s been hard, he’s not sure.

“She’s easiest to talk to when she’s distracted. So just…finish the shave, alright?” Bass instructs.

Miles dips the razor back into the water as Bass barks at the door, “Send her in _alone_!”

In the mirror, Miles observes the staggeringly ample blonde waves, the wise, gray-blue eyes. His gaze migrates down the soft mound of breast beneath her cotton tank-top to the wrists bound at her waist. 

“Miles,” Bass urges him to focus, so Miles resumes his task, mouth dry and bitter. “Have a seat, Rachel.”

She sits primly on the bed like she’s their headmaster instead of their captive and regards them in the glass. “Well isn’t this homoerotic,” she offers. 

Bass smiles, as Miles slides the knife from sideburn to jaw. “Your wrists look raw, Rachel. We have to take precautions when moving you, but if you like, I’ll remove them for you.”

Miles watches Rachel sharply cock her head – a shrewd owl.

“Come over here.” Bass spreads his legs wide on the stool and pats the embroidered cushion between his thighs. 

Miles swallows hoarsely. To his astonishment, Rachel floats imperially over to them to sit between Bass’ legs. With a surge of strangling jealousy, Miles wonders after their private moments of interrogation. It might be his imagination that she shimmies minutely back against Bass’ crotch while he works loose her bonds.

Brown irises crowded out by pupil in the mirror, Miles drops the knife with a clatter, before he realizes that he’s lost his grip. Both blonde heads snap upward in his direction, just as Bass tosses aside the rope.

Rachel almost smirks, rubbing her wrists, “Which of us is it then?” She asks Bass. Miles is a child left out of play at recess. He can no more discern the meaning of this sentence than if it were in Japanese.

When Bass finally answers Rachel’s inquiry, his ragged voice could be aroused or incensed: “He can never tell. That’s his problem.”

Miles’ mouth falls open…and clamps shut. They can’t be playing him. He shoves his fingers into his short, chestnut hair and staggers backward to the bed in confusion. As he lets his cheeks fall into his hands, he notices Rachel and Bass exchange a long look, the meaning of which he can’t begin to decipher. But then, Rachel appears beside him, her regal fingers on the inside of his thigh.

“What?” Miles asks her sharply, vexed by his compete ignorance.

“Oh come on, Miles. I’m not blind. I’ve seen the way your pants strain when you’re interrogating me.”

“Not interrogating. _Questioning_.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself. It’s happening right now,” she confirms, grazing the back of her fingers over the fabric that barely restrains his hard-on. _And_ _fuck his betraying little shit of a body_ , it actually jumps. He knows she felt it too, because she really smirks this time. “So go ahead.” 

“Go ahead and what?” Miles can barely scrape out, his throat dry as desert air.

“Whatever you want.”

Okay, is he dreaming? This is some prolonged, 6am, erotic fantasy he’ll wake out of with his hands tangled in his shorts.

But the crystal-blue eyes are insistent, so he feels compelled to respond. “You want…” it's too crazy _not_ to confirm, “sex?”

His eyes dart then to Bass, who appears casually aroused - hand splayed in his lap, eyes heavy-lidded. Miles has definitely lost it. Someone, no doubt Bass, has made a pact with the Devil for Miles' soul without even consulting him first.

“It’s okay, Miles.” Rachel’s lips (that are too smart for how beautiful she is) insist.

“But… _he’s_ here.” It’s not exactly a decent excuse but smacks of some legitimacy.

“If it’s what you want,” she affirms. That doesn’t seem…right.

“What?” Miles checks. 

Shaking her head, like he’s her idiot child, she pushes his chest back against the bed. In a moment, she wrenches off his shirt and has his dick out, shiny-stretched pink against the backdrop of her porcelain cheeks. _Bass is watching. Goddamn pervert._ And yet Miles’ skin crackles with want. He literally almost comes in Rachel’s mouth at first contact and has to push her off, backpedaling up the bed. How is he the only one naked here? 

“All right, so not _that_ ,” she quirks her eyebrow, unleashing in Miles a torrent of disappointment, of shame that he couldn’t perform…then anger at her for putting him in this position.

Rachel appears to take it as but a mild setback, abruptly disrobing, and sliding up the bed to face him on her side. He can’t meet her eyes but neither can he resist reaching out for the translucent marble skin before him. How is anyone this perfect? He glides the tip of a calloused finger up from stomach to one rosy nipple and watches it harden. She guides the finger back down and past its origins, through the dark-blonde triangle of curls and down the seam of velvety, damp folds. When he pushes in, she exhales and bites her lip. He hasn’t touched her in so long; he honestly can’t fathom how he’s survived without it.

Plunging in his finger knuckle-deep, then twisting, he maps the inside of her greedily. His dick oozes onto his stomach. He’s got to get himself under control. Why is he acting like such a goddamn novice?

“You can use your mouth,” she suggests, and he almost cringes that he didn’t think of it first. Bass is still somewhere, observing amateur-hour from his fucking throne. And yet it’s not enough to deter Miles from trailing his lips down into the heady scent of her sweat and arousal. He kisses her soft curls and clit slowly, wetly, letting his tongue part her folds and find her entrance, before starting the ritual over again.

She wraps her powerful thighs around his neck, and it dawns on him that she could squeeze the life out of him…and he might not have the strength to stop her. Who knows if Bass would care to save him at this point either. Bass…Suddenly, Miles is ensconced by heat and hair from behind. About to sputter and pull back, Miles finds his face shoved back against Rachel.

“Don’t stop,” she demands. “Harder. Faster. Make me come.”

And Miles wants so badly to satisfy her that _screw Bass_ ; if Miles ignores him, maybe he’ll just go away. But it’s not that simple. Coarse fingers slide over his thighs, seeking his erection. Miles grunts so violently at the contact, that Bass’ fingers fly to the base, where curls meet skin. He hates that Bass can read how close he is to coming with almost no stimulation. Bass squeezes and releases, sliding up to Miles’ tip to lubricate him with his own leakage, then back down to temper his excitement once more. 

Miles thrusts his tongue deep into Rachel and recklessly thumbs her clit. She’s puffing nonsense words when the peculiar silk of another man’s penis skims between Miles’ buttocks. _Fuck._ It shouldn’t be this good. Bass slides his cock to the rhythm he’s jacking Miles, leaving Miles positively whimpering into Rachel’s folds. He hopes she can’t tell or that he at least sounds tougher than he feels.

“Miles!” she commands. He rubs her off in a fury of energy, tasting as far inside of her as he can get. She’s seizing, nearly bloodies his nose with a knee, and then just melts back onto the bed. Miles collapses cheek to her pelvis in exhaustion, kissing the tender skin there.

He’s stopped thinking and so, involuntarily, moans as Bass’ dick makes a pass over his – _fuck_ – hole, synchronized with a particularly tight squeeze on the head of his cock.

Miles feels Rachel watching and glances up at her, still resting in the cradle of her pelvis.

“I want to watch…”

He lifts an eyebrow. It’s all he can manage.

“…him fuck you.”

Miles’ brain dog-paddles through a mound of gelatin before it translates this to him: _She wants to watch Bass’ dick in your ass._ Miles cringes at the thought and nearly bites the tip of his tongue.

He believes he’s being honest when he rasps, “I can’t.”

It’s too far. Too invasive. His cheeks burn because this isn’t even the first time Bass has had Miles’ dick in hand. He’s letting Bass prod his entrance right now; his goddamn sphincter is pulsing ecstatically, traitorously. 

Bass nips Miles' earlobe, as he whispers, “I won’t hurt you.” 

_Like hell_ , Miles thinks, but he just squeezes his eyes shut. Doesn’t Bass have a fucking party to be at? Isn’t their friendship on the rocks, and yet here they are fucking each other, as he lies millimeters from Rachel’s naked pussy? 

Speaking of Rachel, she runs her nails down Miles’ scalp, stilling his brain with a cascade of chills, and out of place as it is: _Mom used to do that_. He loses himself a little more, and Bass seizes the moment to enter him just the smallest fraction, blunt dick slicked with an inordinate amount of spit. In the meantime, Bass’ fingers – talented at killing – prove they also know how to work an erection just to the edge before backing off again.

It feels too late to do anything but succumb. As if Miles is on the battlefield in the midst of a tremendous barrage, he wills his body to relax before the final scramble over deadly ground. Rachel strokes his hair and smoothes it behind his ear, apparently enjoying the view. He can’t confirm – his eyes are closed in concentration – and then Bass is fully inside him. It’s a lot to bear, and despite being entangled in unfathomably intimate ways with the only two people he’s ever loved, he feels desperately alone and vulnerable until Bass lets go of his dick and takes his hand instead. Their fingers intertwine.

Miles lets himself get fucked then - wet, cracked open – and is only vaguely aware that Rachel has begun touching herself next to him. She might as well be fucking his brain, while Bass fucks somewhere at the center of his universe _._ All of a sudden, Miles teeters at his edge again, and Bass does too, pulsing a fit of spasms that feel more rough than slick inside Miles. He reaches down to his dick to pull string after string of ejaculate onto Rachel’s legs and his own stomach.

“Mmm!” he hears Rachel moan, as she flounders beneath his cheek, mounting her second orgasm. He kisses the warm skin of her pelvis again, and spends an inordinately long moment dreading opening his eyes and the impending void in his ass when Bass pulls out. Neither is as bad as he predicts. Bass holds him gently, nuzzling into his neck, while Rachel lies peacefully with her eyes closed. Miles is momentarily lulled into thinking it’s going to be okay until Rachel breaks the spell: 

“So. Did you get the answer to your question?” She’s talking to Bass again. 

“I haven’t asked it yet,” Bass mumbles into Miles’ neck, before pulling away to make himself heard. “There’s a lighthouse on Lake Michigan…”

“Lighthouse?” Rachel laughs wryly, brushing Miles aside so that he plunks cheek-first onto the bedspread. “I meant the important question. Which of us does he want?”

Miles snaps his face back at Bass, but Bass is locked in a blue-eyed battle of wills with Rachel and doesn’t even notice him.

“I already told you: He’ll never choose.”

Miles wants to interject, to demand that they stop referring to him like a dependent or a ghost. He just opened himself for them, for Christ’s sakes.

“Oh, he’s chosen. He just doesn’t know it yet.” Rachel, of course. And when she says something with that air of authority – even if it’s something so personal she couldn’t possibly know – you believe her.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if there are typos. This sex was...exhausting?


End file.
